Letter to Jim Dodge

Jim,

Without any further ado about late American model cars (you can look under my hood any time), I came away last night feeling like I’d played jimdodgeball with a pitbull bearing carnations and a crowbar—I was both laughing and growling. 

My friend Sharon Doubiago once asked mountain men Gary Snyder & Wendell Berry “Where’re the women on the bearshit trail?”. Don’t get me wrong, I liked it. Especially the sidetracks. Dinner, trucktalk. They’re always more interesting anyway.

Don’t forget to send me the bio, etc, and other clippings? I get antsy. Blame it on being a Sagge/Scorpio. Gotta jump on it now while I’m arguing with you in my head—it’ll be too diluted a month from now. I could go with what I’ve got, but I feel like I haven’t got the whole picture, just tidbits. So now to construct an article but I’ve got all these unanswered questions.

As a writer, I guess what I’m most interested in is how the sense of place affects one’s art. The writer’s process. The idiosyncrasies & anomalies. Training grounds. (How to avoid burn-out?). 

Tom Roth wants me to focus on West County influences; the before and after shot. Too bad I don’t have a copy of Stone Junction in front of me. . .maybe I should include a sidebar review. 

Where can I get a review copy? You, your agent, Copperfield’s or Atlantic Monthly? Shelling out $20—I’ll earn about as much—seems a little extravagant with April 15 stomping over the horizon. And if I wait for the paperback ed., inflation will eat up my paycheck!

Dammit, I think I will claim my bed as a business expense. Oof, that sounds bad, I meant dough for the IRS. 

John Oliver Simon was always saying what a great bread baker he was. 

I think moving the “r” one word over is a more apt spoonerism. Well, I didn’t go into details about John. Just felt a little shy about it. Suffice to say, he experienced male menopause with a blonde not unlike the ones you were admiring at the walk-up teller last night. You know, firm bodies (his daughter’s age), etc. 

Thanks for the pep talk. Or whatever it was. Yeah, it is all inseparable. Writing, love, hell, intestinal flora & fauna. 

You ask me why women quit eating? Because we turn it all inward. Starve the self. Deny nuturing. Yes, I too am guilty.

Anyway, I uncracked your earlier books looking for clues and found a yellowed postcard you'd sent to me dated 1984 saying you were about to leave for Mexico. Shit, how time flies. I guess the grey hairs (mine too) aren’t an illusion. 

That’s what’s different. Less hair. Found a photo of you from way back. Wooly beard, etc. No, I ain’t gonna write about your bald spot. Liked “Palms to the Moon” in Poet News. Send me some poems. Not much useable info about you in it though.

Last known address for you is a PO box in Cazadero. (Don’t know how you managed to live in a PO box all those years). I think I have your Arcata address buried somewhere in the depths of a journal...but you know how it is with old journals, who wants to disturb dust? Can’t send this to the house next door to the Oddfellows Hall now can I? Would you care to update the address/phone file?

I’ve been threatening to visit an old boyfriend Geoff Davis in Alderpoint for a couple of years now, and do a CPITS workshop/reading with Dan Brewer in Redway beginning of June. Maybe I’ll see you then. 

Or if you’re down this way, Elizabeth Herron and I are doing a reading the first Monday in April at the Russian River Writers’ Guild in Sebastopol with Lynn Watson—yet another Iowa Writer’s Workshop graduate. The PeeDee did an article on Eliz and me--thought you’d like to see it.

Guess what I’m having for lunch? Spring egg rolls & manchurian beef. Forgot to say thanks for dinner. Or should I thank Atlantic Monthly? Gracias por todo. Spaciba. Etcetera.

Dosveydanya

Maureen

1/11/1992—the date is relative as that's the file date. 

See my article on Jim Dodge